


monogrammed

by thegrayness



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Moving In Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24916198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrayness/pseuds/thegrayness
Summary: David and Patrick move into their new house and have soft feelings about their matching towels.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 44
Kudos: 184





	monogrammed

**Author's Note:**

> I think TINN presented the idea for this fic and then I just decided to, er, kind of write it. Just soft domestic fluff. 
> 
> TINN also beta'd and she and Liz provided copious hair pats.

Somehow, the entire town ends up helping them move. 

They don’t have an overwhelming amount of stuff, but David’s bringing his _slightly_ pared-down wardrobe from the love room, plus they have the furniture in Patrick’s apartment. Roland lends them his truck, and Ray drives an SUV that they pack with boxes, and Ronnie volunteers (for David) to bring their coffee table, so that the only things they need to take in Patrick’s barely-functioning sedan are the things David would not trust with anyone else, including a few select items of clothing packed in protective garment bags laid lovingly across the back seat. 

They’re leading the caravan to the outskirts of town, to their cottage, their new home. David’s been brimming with emotion all day, and he’s so happy that he even lets Patrick crack the passenger window. He closes his eyes against the warm breeze, smiling even though it’s definitely ruffling his hair. 

Patrick’s clipboard is resting in David’s lap. It includes a meticulously compiled spreadsheet of every box they packed, numbered, with a brief description of contents. The numbers correspond to a color-coordinated sticker on each box. 

David had very little to do with this spreadsheet, but Patrick did let him choose which color sticker represented which room in their new house. David was happy to let Patrick chart their move, and he offered support in the way of wine refills, shoulders rubs, and the occasional couch blowjob. 

The swarm of butterflies in David’s stomach gets rambunctious when they turn on to their new street, and he sits up straighter in his seat as he peers through the windshield to see their little stone cottage ahead on the left. 

There’s a colorful blur up near the mailbox, and David leans forward a little to see what’s going on. If someone _vandalized_ their property—!

“Oh my god,” Patrick says through a laugh, startling David out of his day-mare. As they pull up closer and swing into the driveway, David realizes that someone has tied _several_ obnoxiously colored balloons to their mailbox, one of which says “Over the Hill,” which is neither relevant to this milestone in their lives _nor_ an accurate representation of either of them. The whole thing screams _Stevie was here_ and David glares out the window.

David throws himself out of the car as soon as Patrick slides the gear shift into Park, and all but stomps over to the mailbox, standing with his hands on his hips. “Oh my _god_.”

Patrick wanders over and rests a hand on David’s shoulder. “What a nice gesture,” he says, and David knows, he _knows_ it’s just to get a reaction out of him. But he still—

“I am _not_ ‘over the hill,’ Patrick!” He exclaims, thrusting a finger in the direction of the grossly offensive welcome gift his soon-to-be-ex best friend left them before she went off into rural Canada to vet a motel for her business. 

David crosses his arms and stares into the distance. He hopes Stevie forgot her deodorant on her trip and smells like a farm for her meeting. 

He drops his shoulders in guilt as soon as he thinks it and then sends up a silent wish that she smells great. 

“Okay, David, let’s pout at the balloons from our friend later and start unpacking the cars _now_ ,” Patrick says, resting his hand on David’s shoulders and squeezing him lightly. 

David opens his mouth to _object_ to the ‘nice gesture’ comment and wheels around to let Patrick know what Stevie can _do_ with her gesture, but he catches sight of something else, near… _their_ front door. The wreath that the previous homeowners had hung was gone, and in its place was a painted wood sign with ‘Welcome Home’ in admittedly chic script lettering. 

“Oh,” David breathes. 

Patrick turns too, and David hears him gasp softly. David covers his mouth when Patrick wraps his arms around David’s middle. “David,” Patrick murmurs. “Welcome home.”

*

David’s next wave of emotion comes when they’re unpacking the master suite. 

It’s late in the evening—their friends are gone, full of pizza and beer and a “cake” that Twyla brought over that looked neither edible nor like a cake. David will be checking on Ronnie and Ray tomorrow—they are the only ones who definitely, definitely ate it. David, at least, had perfected his “pretend to take a bite” mannerisms from his time dating Kate Hudson when she went through a well-intentioned but wildly unsuccessful “I’m going to open a vegan restaurant,” phase. 

David is sorting and refolding their towels, arranging them correctly in their linen closet when he comes across the monogrammed ones Stevie bought him in Elmdale. Tucked next to them, still inside the plastic bag they were shipped in, is a set with the initials PB. 

He pulls them out of the plastic and holds them up, smiling fondly. He’d forgotten about these. Stevie had given them to Patrick as a wedding present. (“Where’s _my_ wedding present?” David had asked at the rehearsal dinner. “Me as your Maid of Honor,” Stevie had replied, knocking back the rest of her champagne.)

Grabbing the DR hand towel and the PB hand towel, he hangs them carefully on the towel rod next to the sink, fussing with the way they look. He peeks into the bedroom to see Patrick cutely folding his Levi’s, and then slips his phone out of his pocket to take one or ten photos of their towels next to each other. The lighting in their bathroom is actually _really good_ , so he also takes a few selfies, and that’s when Patrick finds him. 

“I thought you were ‘correctly organizing’ the linen closet?” He says, leaning over David’s shoulder. David quickly swipes away the camera app and locks his phone. 

“Just taking a quick break,” is all he says. He feels his cheeks heat up—feels embarrassed that he wanted to document their domesticity. 

Patrick hugs him from behind again, reaching around him to pinch the corner of the PB towel between his fingers. “Was wondering where these got to.”

David rubs his head against Patrick’s cheek. “Most of the other gifts were kitchen-related so I just put these with the towels.”

“That’s very practical of you,” Patrick murmurs. “They look good.”

David figures Patrick is just saying it for his benefit, to make him feel better for fawning over them even though they’re just towels, but he appreciates the thought anyway. He hums in agreement. “We should finish so we can get to bed.”

Patrick offers a soft _mmhmm_ and presses a kiss to David’s shoulder. “Good idea.”

*

The next morning, David blinks awake to find Patrick staring at him like a _total_ creep. He starts slightly, groaning quietly when Patrick grins. “Good morning, David,” he says quietly, fumbling a hand between them to slide over David’s hip. “Did you enjoy your first night in our cute, huge bed?”

“Oh my _god_ , please do _not_ start quoting that again I can’t—on our first morning in our new house? You’re a monster,” David grumbles, immediately turning away from his troll of a husband. The tune had _inexplicably_ come up on Patrick’s _allegedly_ David-approved playlist on their drive yesterday.

David _hmmphs_ and to snuggles back into his pillow. It seems pretty early and David doesn’t turn down extra sleep, so he pulls the covers up to his chin and sighs happily. 

Three seconds pass before he feels Patrick wiggle up behind him and wrap an arm around his waist. David grins. “Hello again,” he says, settling back into Patrick’s embrace. “You feel good,” he sighs when Patrick begins pressing light, fluttery kisses to the back of his neck. “ _That_ feels good.”

Patrick makes a quiet noise, drags his nose along the shell of David's ear. “Good,” he says, and David feels the word all the way down his spine, curls his toes into his sheets, and presses his hips back into the cradle of Patrick's. 

They stay like that for a while, warm, pressed back-to-chest, their breath matching up after a few minutes, enjoying the quiet of their cottage. David feels Patrick start up again, lips brushing tenderly over David’s skin. “I love this,” Patrick whispers. 

“I love _you_ ,” David answers, turning in Patrick’s arms to fit their lips together in a proper good morning kiss. Patrick squeezes him tight, and he slides his leg over Patrick’s thigh, moaning quietly as Patrick scratches lightly at the small of his back. It’s almost like they’re back in Patrick’s apartment, closer to Main Street, waiting for the garbage truck to thunder down the road and startle them apart. 

But it doesn't—they stay close, David nudging Patrick’s nose with his own, biting playfully at Patrick’s cupid’s bow. Patrick slipping a hand up to tangle in the back of David’s hair, tilting his head just right for another perfect new-house kiss while David _lets_ him. 

Eventually they have to get up—Patrick has to pee and David will be requiring food soon. Their bathroom is bigger than the one at Patrick’s apartment, but it still only has one sink for now, so David squeezes in next to Patrick as they brush their teeth. 

Patrick showers first and David gets back in bed, grabbing his phone from the empty nightstand. They still have a lot of decor to purchase—David has about 30 pins on his bedroom Pinterest board for lamps alone—and the sight of the bare-bones decorating in the room reminds him to narrow that down a bit. 

He gets distracted choosing between two similar but _completely_ different options, and just as he clicks _delete_ on the taller one, Patrick steps out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. 

David lets his phone fall onto the sheets and turns onto his side, digging his elbow into the bed and propping his face on his hand. “Hello there,” he purrs dramatically, shamelessly ogling the breadth of his husband’s shoulders and the cut of his waist and the flexing of his forearm where he’s holding the towel closed. 

Patrick laughs lightly, and he’s already flushed from the shower, but David knows he’d get pink high on his cheeks from the attention. Despite his easy confidence, Patrick is always slightly bashful when David shows blatant appreciation. “Hi, David,” he says, in the same tone he always uses when he thinks David is being ridiculous. He must know by now that it makes David want to be even more ridiculous, just to hear Patrick say his name like that, but he still does it every time.

David lets his eyes follow Patrick over to the dresser where some of their clothes are already unpacked. His gaze snags on the big monogram near the edge of the towel— _PB_. “Nice towel,” David comments. 

Patrick turns back towards him and winks, kind of, before fishing out a t-shirt and shorts from the drawers.

After waiting until the last possible moment to actually get out of bed—when Patrick leaves him to go start the coffee—David showers. He doesn’t rush, but he doesn't linger either, eager to join Patrick in the kitchen for their first breakfast in their house. Sure, it’s day-old pastries, but David’s looking forward to it anyway.

When he steps out of the shower, he eyes the remaining towel on the hook— _DR_. He reaches out for the item, but then he notices other towels in the box of linens they’d stopped unpacking prematurely last night, too tempted by the idea of each other in bed in their new house. Patrick’s other PB bath towel is sitting benignly on top, and, feeling a chill over his wet skin from the drafty window, David grabs it, wraps it around himself, and makes his way into the bedroom to get dressed. 

*

The next morning, it’s back to work for them both, but Patrick wakes David up the permissible ten minutes early for a sleepy makeout session that devolves into rushed handjobs under the covers. It’s so reminiscent of their early relationship, when Patrick still lived with Ray, that David bursts into giggles afterwards, pressing his mouth to Patrick’s shoulder to stifle the sound. 

“David,” Patrick says through his own laughter. “Laughing right after I make you come is _not_ okay.”

“Aw, honey,” David teases. “You know I love laughing with you.” He’s not laughing anymore though, because Patrick’s face has turned soft, and fond, and he blinks slowly at David. 

“I know,” Patrick responds, leaning in for a gentle kiss. “We should get out of bed.”

David nods but doesn’t make a move to get up, just grins and presses another kiss to Patrick’s warm lips. 

Their back-up alarm—that Patrick insists needs to be the sound of a damn emergency exit siren—startles them apart, and Patrick laughs at David’s whine of disappointment as Patrick gets out of bed to head to the bathroom, leaving the alarm blaring so David has to flop across the bed and fumble for Patrick’s phone to shut it off. 

He’s nearly back asleep when Patrick calls out to him, “Hey, David, why do both of these towels on the hooks have my initials on them?”

David bites his lip, but doesn’t answer, hoping Patrick will think he’s just asleep and then forget about the whole towel business when he comes back to the bedroom to wake him up. But Patrick continues, “What happened to your towel?” He steps out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, looking at David expectantly. 

“I—” David begins, dragging himself up to lean against the headboard. He sifts through his thoughts to make up an excuse, but one glance at Patrick’s expression—open and honest and loving—and David folds. “It’s nice—using your towel,” he says, shrugging and avoiding all eye contact. “Maybe the thread count is higher.”

Patrick’s smile is both charmed and surprised as he sits on the bed, hip pressing against David’s thigh. He leans close, warm from the shower and David can see where his skin is still damp. The urge to lean forward, too—to meet Patrick halfway, to press his lips to the droplets on Patrick’s clavicle—is so strong that David licks his lips in anticipation. 

“David Rose,” Patrick says as David meets his gaze, pressing his hands into the bed on either side of David. “Do you want to wear my letterman jacket, too?”

He’s grinning, teasing, and David flushes all over, because _yes_ he would, if this was _Grease_ and the option was available. As it is, he scoffs and turns away, squirming under Patrick’s undivided attention. “ _No_ ,” he says emphatically, still looking away. “I do _not_.”

Patrick makes a disbelieving noise and kisses his cheek, under his jaw, the side of his neck, dragging his damp skin over David’s own—sleep-warm. “Okay, David,” he murmurs, pulling back.

David turns back towards him, trying his best to stifle a smile. “Don’t you have to get dressed?” He says, trying to sound firm, and not breathless from his husband’s soft kisses. He’s not sure it comes out the way he intends, if Patrick’s widening grin is anything to go by.

“I do.” Patrick touches his lips to David’s forehead before standing to grab his clothes. As he walks to the closet, David notices the monogram on his towel.

DR.


End file.
